


Contagious

by robinwritesallthefanfiction



Category: Burning Zone
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Medical Thriller, Mention of Disease, Mild Language, Romance, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 19:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinwritesallthefanfiction/pseuds/robinwritesallthefanfiction
Summary: Graduate student Robin Ballard is assigned to work with young hotshot Dr. Edward Marcase on a special government project involving extreme viral outbreaks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who may not know, Dr. Edward Marcase is Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s character in the television show _The Burning Zone_. _The Burning Zone_ aired in 1996 and 1997 and was supposed to cash in on the success of _The X-Files_ by featuring similar storylines, but it didn’t pan out. _The Burning Zone_ is almost impossible to find; I was able to obtain a fan-made copy here: <http://www.ioffer.com/i/the-burning-zone-complete-series-552462332>. This story begins before the action of the show, but will encompass the events of Jeffrey’s episodes eventually.
> 
> I have attempted to make the science in this story as accurate as possible, but please forgive me if I purposefully twist some facts in favor of storytelling or if I get some wrong due to ignorance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin meets Dr. Edward Marcase.

I look up from my microscope as Dr. Gunn’s voice echoes angrily down the hallway. “I’m not sending any of our students to work with him, Daniel! I know he’s a brilliant doctor, and I can appreciate that, but he’s also a nut! All that religious mumbo jumbo isn’t going to do them any good; it will negate anything they might be able to learn from him. The answer is no. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you understand that I can’t take no for an answer, Robert. This isn’t a request; it’s a mandate.” The reply is authoritative, calm, and collected. I know that tone. Dr. Gunn isn’t going to be able to get out of this one, no matter how hard he tries.

“But who do I send?” he asks in frustration. “How can I force any of them to work with him? They aren’t going to respect him, Daniel. They’re scientists, not shamans. They don’t think like he does.” I look back into my microscope as Dr. Gunn and his guest reach my lab, smoothly acting like I haven’t been listening this entire time. I can feel him pausing at the door and staring at me, but I don’t acknowledge that I’ve noticed.

I know that he’s staring at my tattoo. It isn’t particularly flamboyant or eye-catching, just a simple black ankh, about two inches in size, that adorns the inside of my left wrist, but it always attracts a lot of attention around here. I could wear long sleeves to cover it up, but I don’t particularly want to. I like looking at it while I work. It puts things in perspective.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Ballard,” Dr. Gunn greets me cheerfully. I smile to myself before lifting my head to greet him; he only sounds like that when he thinks he’s had a brilliant idea. “I have an opportunity that I think you’ll be very interested in.”

I push back from the lab table, standing and turning to lean back against it and crossing my arms across my chest. “I’d be honored, Dr. Gunn.” My voice is vaguely sarcastic; I know what he’s thinking and I’m not particularly happy about it.

“Let me introduce you to Dr. Daniel Cassian,” Dr. Gunn begins, gesturing to the man in the doorway. I’ve heard of Dr. Cassian. Officially, he works for the government investigating unusual disease outbreaks. Unofficially, there are several prominent conspiracy theories about what he actually does, none of which I give much credence to. Dr. Cassian stays in the doorway to watch our exchange, so I nod politely in his direction. He nods back.

“Ms. Ballard is one of our most promising virology students,” Dr. Gunn continues, “and I think she would benefit from your offer.” I smile indulgently. Dr. Gunn isn’t wrong; I am one of the institute’s most promising students, but I’m viewed as a bit unorthodox, so I haven’t made as much progress as I should have. Now he’s sensed the chance to get me out of his hair and he’s jumping on it.

“And what offer would that be, Dr. Cassian?” I glance at our visitor; he raises an eyebrow and steps into the room.

“Are you familiar with Dr. Edward Marcase, Ms. Ballard?”

I had guessed that that was who they were talking about. There weren’t many doctors with a reputation like that.

“He’s a prodigy,” I respond. “A young hotshot virologist. People say he’s brilliant, but difficult to work with. I’ve heard a variety of reasons why, but I wouldn’t want to repeat rumors.”

“A very accurate assessment.” Dr. Cassian nods. “Yes, Dr. Marcase has a tendency to… think outside the box, shall we say? Would that bother you?”

“Not at all. Creative thinking is how scientists solve problems.” Dr. Gunn presses his lips together in an attempt to keep quiet. Dr. Cassian’s eyes flick to the side as he notices too.

“Very well, then.” Dr. Cassian ignores Dr. Gunn and addresses me directly. “We’re looking for a graduate student to work with Dr. Marcase on a special project, and it seems that Dr. Gunn is suggesting you.”

I think seriously for a moment. Despite my disdain for the reasoning behind the recommendation, it’s certainly something that could put me ahead of my peers professionally, and I probably would learn a lot. And Dr. Marcase’s reputation doesn’t scare me; he can’t possibly be worse than anyone else I’ve dealt with during my short career so far.

Besides, if Dr. Gunn shoves me into this and it benefits me, it will make him angry for a long time. That’s worth almost anything.

“I’m flattered to be suggested, Dr. Cassian,” I tell him truthfully. “When do we leave?”

****

Later that day, I find myself on a private jet with Dr. Cassian. He has to work during the flight, but he gives me Dr. Edward Marcase’s dossier to look over, along with a few documents pertaining to his special project, so I settle in with a cup of coffee and start to read.

Dr. Marcase’s resume is impressive. Bachelor’s degrees in both biology and chemistry from MIT, near-perfect MCAT scores, and a dual MD and PhD from Johns Hopkins. Normally an education like that would take ten or more years to complete, but Marcase had completed both of his bachelor’s degrees in two years and his MD and PhD in four. He’d passed his medical licensing exams at the age of 24 and gone through a series of residencies at the CDC and the NIH. He knew more about the Ebola virus than anyone, and had distinguished himself through research.

Looking through all of these materials, you would never guess that hardly anyone wanted to work with Dr. Edward Marcase.

I wasn’t lying when I’d told Dr. Cassian that I didn’t want to repeat rumors, but everybody knew the rhetoric surrounding Dr. Edward Marcase in the academic and medical communities. He was only thirty, yet he had already exceeded the accomplishments of most of his colleagues; this made them jealous, and they often argued that he was too young to be measured enough for critical scientific work. He seemed to prove this assertion by being brash and willing to do almost anything to accomplish his goals.

Still, his reputation might have survived those particular traits if it hadn’t been for the unorthodox views Dr. Marcase had about the way viruses mutated and spread. My particular research focus was on abnormal viral mutations, so I’d read most of his work. On the surface, his ideas may have seemed crazy, but they actually made a lot of sense once you cut through the mysticism and spirituality that a lot of scientists just weren’t willing to try and understand.

The documents about Marcase’s special project are vague and offer almost no information at all. I can tell they’ve been written by a government agency and not a brilliant doctor. I figure that once I meet him, he’ll tell me what I need to know, so I single out a few articles that I haven’t read yet on Marcase’s publication list and refill my coffee before settling in with them.

Dr. Cassian and I read and work in comfortable silence for the rest of the flight.

****

When we arrive at Dr. Cassian’s lab, it’s almost midnight. He informs me that I’ll meet Dr. Marcase and everyone else tomorrow and advises me to get some sleep, but I’m far too restless for that. The room he’s given me is simple, but nice, so I distract myself for a few minutes by putting away my things and grabbing a quick shower. Since no one told me I couldn’t, I decide to explore the facility. I throw on some yoga pants and a tank top and pull my damp hair back into a loose bun before wandering into the hallway.

The building is softly lit, and everything is painted a dull gray color. Most of the labs and work areas are dark, and I decide not to disturb them for now. I’m sure I’ll get a grand tour tomorrow. I round a corner, noticing that one lab’s lights are still on. Someone must be a night owl. I pad my way over to the open door and lean against the frame.

There’s a lone man inside the room. He hasn’t noticed me yet because he’s peering into a microscope, so I can’t get a good look at his face. He’s making notes on a pad of paper next to his workstation, though, and I can see that he has beautiful hands and long, delicate fingers.

“Do you need something?” he asks, continuing to work as he speaks. His voice is deep, and I note that he sounds curious, not annoyed.

“Just exploring the new digs,” I shrug, stepping into the room. “What are you working on?”

He pushes back from the microscope and stands. He’s tall and lean, but obviously well-muscled. He fills out his jeans nicely, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing dark curls of chest hair. His hair is short and brown, he’s sporting a very sexy five o’clock shadow, and his eyes are a deep hazel. Whoever he is, he’s extraordinarily handsome.

He gestures to the microscope with one hand and smirks. “You tell me,” he challenges. I chuckle and walk over to the microscope, putting my eyes to the lenses.

“Lassa,” I say immediately. “Rare virus carried by West African rats. Transmission is airborne if you’re in proximity of a rat’s fecal matter; in humans, it’s spread through direct contact with bodily fluids. Roughly 15-20% mortality rate; it causes about 5,000 deaths a year, most of them in West Africa. Symptoms include fever, chest pain, facial swelling, encephalitis, nosebleeds, and deafness. Usually responds to antivirals in its early stages. Not really much of a concern as viruses go. I wouldn’t think something like Lassa would be on this lab’s radar.”

“Keep looking,” my companion suggests quietly. I obey, my eyes widening when the cells actually start to divide and change as I watch.

“Well, that’s new,” I murmur, twisting the dials to shift the focus on the microscope. “Usually viruses take years to adapt and evolve. You didn’t add anything to this sample, did you?”

“I did not,” he confirms. “What do you think could be causing it?”

I straighten and turn, leaning against the table and looking up at him. “The most likely explanation is some sort of accelerating agent, either natural or synthetic, but without knowing where the sample originated from, it would be difficult to determine if that was the case. And I’ve never heard of one that works that well or that fast. Most attempts at creating a synthetic accelerating agent to study how viruses mutate in a closed lab environment have been unsuccessful, and there’s serious concern about the ethics of developing one anyway, considering the potential effects if it were used recklessly. As for natural ones, I’m not aware that any have ever been found.”

The man walks to me until our chests are almost touching; I crane my neck up so I can keep looking at his face. He licks his lips and smiles. “Who are you?” he asks curiously, resting his hands on the table on either side of me.

I feel my cheeks flush. He’s warm; I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He smells good too, which is a bit surprising. Scientists tend to smell like the labs they work in and generally don’t attempt to do anything about it, but he smells pleasantly musky with a slight hint of pine. I don’t smell any aftershave or cologne, so it must be his soap.

“Robin Ballard,” I finally manage to answer. “Who are you?”

“Robin Ballard?” he repeats, glancing down and getting an eyeful of my cleavage. “The new graduate student?” He looks momentarily confused. “I thought you were a guy,” he muses.

I snort. “Well, the name can be deceptive, but if you saw my file, it does specify that I’m female,” I joke, raising an eyebrow. “Did you read past the first line?” I tease. If he realized who I was from hearing my name, he must have gotten more information somewhere.

“No,” he admits. “I don’t, usually. I prefer getting to know others in person.”

“A social scientist. Imagine that.” He smirks again and shakes his head at me playfully. “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

“Dr. Edward Marcase,” he responds, lifting his palm from the table and offering it to me. I put my hand in his and shake it gently. So this is him. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s the one up late working.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Marcase. I’ve been looking forward to it, actually.”

It’s his turn to chuckle. “Either you’re yanking my chain or you’re a very good bullshitter.”

I grin. “I happen to be an excellent bullshitter, Dr. Marcase, but I rarely yank chains. Unless someone’s an asshole, but you don’t strike me as an asshole, oddly enough.” I let his hand go, pressing mine into the table to keep my balance. He wraps his around my waist, resting his palm on the small of my back; his touch is firm and strong. “Although you don’t seem to have much of a definition of personal space,” I add teasingly.

“Well, Robin,” he replies, “it’s not every day that there’s a beautiful, intelligent woman in my lab. It tends to make my boundaries hazy. And call me Edward,” he clarifies. “So you really want to get to know me, huh?”

“Based on what I’ve read, I’m intrigued, yes.” He moves his hand from my back to my arm, dragging his fingers over my tattoo before circling them around my wrist.

“So am I,” he hums; I tilt my head curiously. He wraps his other arm around my waist, letting go of my wrist and walking towards the door. “Come on, Robin. What do you say I show you where the coffee is?”


End file.
